


Waning Crescent, Growing Dark

by inelegantly (Lir)



Category: I Miss You - Blink-182 (Song), Original Work
Genre: Loneliness, M/M, Nightmares, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 16:42:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6996226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lir/pseuds/inelegantly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theo is in a relationship with a boy he knows best over the telephone line, his voice a familiar constant as he gets ready for work and begins his days. His voice is at times a little <i>too</i> familiar, the one thing Theo remembers when he starts to forget everything else. Even through sleepless nights and fleeting nightmares, the voice Theo knows best is always there, a dubious beacon to guide him through the moonless night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waning Crescent, Growing Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadow_lover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_lover/gifts).



> I really loved all of your song choices and the things you had to say about them, and struggled to settle on one I really wanted to write. In the end I chose "I Miss You" by Blink 182, and planned something which ended up going in rather a different direction than I intended. (I intended to write nightmare porn! That is not what happened.) Even so, I hope you enjoy this story I have crafted for you. 
> 
> (you said "yes" to nightmares and some kinds of physical hurt but "no" to gore. I did my best to abide by this and don't think I've given you gore but be advised, there is one injury-related nightmare herein.)

* * *

It's after midnight when Theo steps outside, face upturned to feel the cool night air on his cheeks. The sky overhead is vast and dark, a veil of cloud sweeping across the stars and obscuring even the pinprick glow of their lights.

The voice in his head whispers, _the moon is pretty tonight, isn't it?_

Theo stares up at the clouds, at the lightest gray smudges against a greater blackness, and cannot disagree. The moon must be pretty, up there in the sky. It's a lovely night to be outside. He reaches his hand out, and for a moment is blindsided by the fear that there will be no one there to take it. 

But then there comes a pressure against his palm, the sensation of skin sliding against his skin. Theo squeezes his fingers closed, holding familiarity in his hand. 

"It's pretty," Theo agrees, standing beneath that empty sky.

A gust of air breezes past him, the wind stirring up his hair and brushing it back from his forehead in a ghostly imitation of a caress. The voice in his head is just as gentle, just as soft, whispering, _but the moon isn't nearly as pretty as you._

* * *

"Hold on, hold on," Theo is saying into the phone, pulling on his jacket one-handed as he keeps it cradled between shoulder and ear. "I'm going out the door, I'm grabbing my keys, hold on."

On the other end of the line there's a breath of silence, a beat falling between them as Theo transfers his phone from one side of his face to the other before he manages to shrug his jacket all the way on. He makes a triumphant sound at his success, earning a puff of laughter breathed into his ear over the line. 

"I should know better than to call you on your way to work," the voice says. "But I never learn." 

"You never do," Theo agrees. 

There's the jingle of keys swinging against each other as Theo snatches them up from their place beside the door, then the creak of hinges as he pushes it open and steps out of the apartment. When he transfers his phone back to the other cheek, this time his hand remains there to hold it. 

"When are we going out?" the voice asks. 

"I don't know," Theo says. "That depends on when _you_ can make the time to see me. I thought I was supposed to be the busy one!" 

"You are!" the voice insists. "You're the one who works odd hours. You're the one I keep having to call!" 

"Fine, fine," Theo says, as he arrives at his car in the lot. "We'll make plans. We'll go out. How's Friday sound? Dinner on Friday, it's my day off." 

"Dinner on Friday," the voice repeats. "I can do that." 

"I know just the place," Theo says, fumbling again with his keys. "Hold on, I'll — I have to get off the phone, I have to drive now. I'll send you the address. We'll go out." 

"I'll be waiting." 

Theo laughs, soft and fond, and shakes his head. "Maybe one of these days I'll stop keeping you waiting. I don't know what I'd do without you. Hey — I love you. I'll see you. I gotta go, I'll call you back later." 

"Until later," comes the reply.

"Yeah, until later. I miss you. Hey. Bye — Goodbye." 

The call cuts off with a muffled click, silence replacing the hush of breathing from over the telephone line.

* * *

It's quiet at Theo's work, the patient quiet of undisturbed spaces. He comes in from the back every day, into the sterile silence that's been preserved just for him. While the front of the funeral home is the domain of grieving families and of the funeral director, it is also a fraught landscape of hushed voices and careful smiles, of gentle music and manufactured calm. The back of the building remains separate, kept apart.

It's where the embalming room is, and the drying room, is where the plush carpets of public parlors give way to slick linoleum flooring and unblemished bone-white walls. Theo's shoes tap softly against the plastic tiles as he makes his way down the hall; he lets himself into the embalming room without making any sound greater than that of the rattle from the metal handle set into the door. 

He likes the peace of it, the uncomplicated company of the dead. 

It isn't morbid, handling the bodies that pass into his care. There's a solemnity to it, a ritual — proper measures that must be taken when he's been entrusted with someone else's corporeal shell that's only been recently vacated. Theo has always liked the sound of that, of caring for someone even after death when it's only him and the process for company. Sometimes it feels a little lonely. But Theo enjoys being alone. 

He remembers the call from earlier, his admission of, _I don't know what I'd do without you,_ made without a second thought. Even he can only stand loneliness for so long. 

There's a flicker at the corner of his vision, a glimpse of something that might be motion off in the corner of the room. Theo glances towards it but nothing appears out of the ordinary; there are cabinets against the walls and a few extra supplies stacked beside them, jugs of formaldehyde and the other chemicals that go into his work. The lights overhead are glaring, pitiless, illuminating the tools of his trade spread out before the embalming machine. Light glints off surgical steel but Theo ignores it, goes instead to fussily wash his hands. 

The shadows he sees in a well-lit room must only be his imagination; he thrusts them off in favor of concentration on his work.

* * *

There are shadows there, on Theo's drive home from work. They linger at the edges of his headlight beams, in places too near for any shadow to be. Theo calls his boyfriend twice when he gets home; there comes no answer to his calls.

* * *

_Come outside,_ the voice whispers in Theo's ear, _Come outside and see the moon._

Theo's bedroom is dark, with night descended outside, with the windows curtained and the lights turned off. He rolls over in bed so that the sound of the voice is replaced by the shuffling of his own body against the mattress, by the rustle of sheets sliding against each other on the bed. Theo stares off in front of him in the gloom; all he can see is the gray stretch of his bare bedroom wall in the half-light. 

_Theo,_ the voice begins again. _Theo, Theo. Come outside. Come and stand beneath the sky._

Theo rolls over again, but the voice doesn't stop. The whisper of his name echoes in his ears, a steady hush like that of heavy breathing coming from some distance, each breath rushing together into indistinguishable background noise. The wash of it breaks over Theo, rising and falling like a tide, a temptation his limbs feel too heavy to take. 

Theo thinks that he sleeps, as the whispers wash out into white noise. He dreams of the moon.

* * *

"Hey, I know you've been really busy," Theo says into the phone, as he watches the little carousel inside his microwave rotate around and around. "But I just wanted to call and check in, you know, to say hi."

His breakfast looks less than appetizing, seen through the yellow light behind the microwave's door. He takes a breath in and turns away, momentarily losing track of what it is he wanted to say. 

"You didn't show up on Friday. It was just me, waiting at the restaurant." 

That isn't it. Theo is certain this isn't what he meant, is certain he meant to broach the subject some other way. There's only silence over the telephone line; his boyfriend's voice mailbox has no answers for him about the abandoned date. Theo sighs, and turns back toward the microwave's artificial, sunny glow. 

"You haven't called me when I'm getting ready in a while, either," Theo whispers. "I guess I miss it." 

The microwave chimes, its high-pitched shrilling cutting through the kitchen's empty air. 

"Whatever," he says. "Call me back, we'll... Make some other plans. Maybe we'll both make it this time. I gotta get ready for work, I just— Never mind. Call me back. Bye." 

Theo's breakfast is exactly as disappointing as he expected. The call remains more so.

* * *

Theo wakes all at once, eyes snapping open to stare blindly into the gloom.

He's cold, the surface under his back proving itself to be hard and unyielding. He puts one hand down against it, his fingers falling into the grooves of the operating table where the water drains away after he washes down the bodies. Theo sits up, and swings his legs over the side of the embalming table. 

He's at work. He's... He doesn't know why he's in the funeral home, shivers at the thought of passing an entire night sleeping on a hard metal table usually only occupied by the dead. But the layout of the room is familiar even in the dark, and Theo makes his way slowly across it until he reaches the panel of light switches by the door. 

He flicks the first one. Nothing happens. He flicks the next up, and the next, toggles the first switch on and off with no result. The room remains dark, close, quiet. Empty. Theo is alone. 

He can hear his heartbeat thundering fast in his ears, heavy and deafening. 

Theo tries the door handle. It turns beneath his palm, releasing him out into the hall. The walk down to the external door stretches out, his footsteps echoing, his breath rasping out into the silence with nervous quickness. When the night air hits his face, the door to the outside pushed open before him, Theo gasps in reaction. 

There are no stars overhead, but the clouds shift, and from behind them Theo can see the sliver of a waning moon. 

"It's pretty tonight," Theo whispers to himself. 

He doesn't remember how he gets home.

* * *

When Theo checks his phone in the morning, there are seven unheard voicemails. He attempts to check them, but every message brings him nothing but static. He checks the numbers; they are unlisted. The fact unnerves him, when he'd thought at least one call would be from his boyfriend. When he calls himself, no one picks up.

* * *

_It's nice, isn't it,_ the voice whispers. _Going on a date like this, being able to walk like this?_

The wind cuts right through Theo's coat as he walks, the night air colder than he'd planned for. But he thinks, it is nice, being able to go on a date. Being able to see his boyfriend. He puts his hand out, gratified by the familiar feeling of pressure against his palm as it's taken in someone else's grasp. 

"How come you missed our last date?" Theo asks. "How come you keep missing my calls?" 

For a moment there's only silence, or near to it. The wind whistles in Theo's ears and he can hear his heartbeat thudding slowly in his chest, but his palm is warm and he thinks, this time he'll have his answer. 

_I didn't miss your calls,_ the voice replies. _I returned every one. You should check your voicemail more often._

Theo nods to himself. That's reasonable. Of course he would have understood, if he'd only listened to his messages. Of course he was only... Missing those calls in return. Telephone tag was the worst kind of game. 

_And we're having our date now,_ the voice adds. _This is better._

Theo looks up toward the sky as they walk, picking out the thin slice of the crescent moon against the blackness. It's a narrow rind of light against the satin-dark of the sky, but it is lovely to look upon. It's a lovely date, these walks they always have — just them and the night and the moon. It's a shame the moon is almost gone, slivered down towards new. 

"This is all I really wanted," Theo says, and once he hears it, the words ring out sounding true. 

_This is all you need to want,_ the voice says. _You and me, together, with nothing in the way._

"Together," Theo echoes. "Yeah, I like that."

The wind picks up again, slicing through Theo's clothes, ruffling his hair and sending prickling shivers up his neck. Anything else there is to hear gets lost in the gust of it, but anything else doesn't matter. He walks for a very long time. He walks until the sun is coming up in the east, and he's turned back toward his apartment building, and his hand feels cold and stiff where he's held it by his side.

* * *

Theo doesn't make any more phone calls. He _thinks_ about phone calls, thinks about his boyfriend's warm, cheerful voice keeping him company every day as he prepares for work. He thinks about the way they laugh together, and say _I love you,_ and how even with their conflicting work schedules they find time to go out to eat, or catch a movie, or sit in evenings with a meal on the stove and something playing on the television.

He thinks about autumn walks in the late afternoon, with golden sunlight slanting down and red, red leaves crunching underfoot. He thinks about the way the wind whistles through the rapidly-baring branches of the trees, and how nice it feels to have a hand grasped in his, keeping it warm, keeping him grounded. 

He thinks about the dreams they have, of getting a place together, of going to sleep together every night. He thinks about making their hours work, about coming to bed to a warm body already nestled beneath the sheets. He thinks about shared breakfasts, about trips to the grocery store, about leaving each other notes to pick up milk, or eggs, or to try the leftovers cooling on the stove. He thinks about life, and living it without loneliness. 

He dreams awake, as he drives to work, as he waits in traffic, as he goes through the motions of his daily routine. That voice is there in his head, whispering reassurances, platitudes that lose all meaning for the repetition. Theo dreams awake in the moments his mind is idle, because he no longer dreams when he's asleep.

* * *

Theo's eyes snap open, staring out into the dark.

The room presses close all around him, and for a moment Theo has no idea where he is. Panic grips him, the weight of the blankets pressing down on him holding him to immobility. His mouth opens, but not a sound breaks free. He's overwhelmed with the urge to thrash, the urge to scream.

The voice in his head whispers, _Don't be hasty. It's only me._

Theo's bedroom resolves itself, the usual shadows rising out of the gloom in a familiar landscape, and the urge for flight dies from where it has seized Theo's brain and electrified his limbs. Relief washes through him, flooding down his veins and melting his body to lie complacently again upon the mattress. The voice is there in his head, whispering, comforting, and Theo cannot be afraid. 

The shadows linger in the corners of the room, twisting at the corners of Theo's eyes, writhing just out of sight and then into it. Theo watches them in their unnatural movements, and still he feels not afraid. 

_It's only me,_ the voice says again, as the shadows mass and pulse, as blindness spangles Theo's eyes.

The bed dips at one end with an invisible weight, shadows pooling onto the blanket, gathering over Theo's calves, over his thighs. His palms feel warm; as something draws the blankets down from across his chest, he swears he can feel the ghost of a caress brushing across the backs of his hands. 

His eyes strain, struggling to pick out the shadow shape from the greater darkness. He hears it laugh, hears the voice ripple with mirth, easy chuckles that echo inside his head. He sees the flash of light off something hidden, a gleam from an undetectable source reflecting off something that shines like metal, like bright, surgical steel. Theo thinks of his workplace, of the embalming room stocked with so many scalpels, perfect for inserting just beneath the armpit, for cutting with an eye to drain the body of blood. 

Light flashes off steel, and part of Theo is alert enough to feel afraid. 

_This is all you need,_ the voice whispers to Theo, low, persuasive. _This is only you and me._

There comes a pressure against his chest, first present only as a weight, then as the sharp, bright prick of pain. The first cut brings clarity, a heightening of Theo's awareness that's paired with the pain. It's followed by the drag of that hand down his chest, sliding over his skin in an intimate caress, dragging the scalpel with it like he's being prepared at autopsy. Theo's mouth seals itself shut; though the pain is intense, he cannot think to scream.

The slice stretches from his sternum to navel, stops only when the shadow hands move to pull open his insides. Theo cannot see it happening; he can't command himself to turn his head, doubts he could crane his neck far enough even if he could. He stares instead up into the sightless darkness, stars bursting against the backs of his eyelids. He can't see it, but he can feel the fingers pushing into the incision, can feel the shadows crawling into his insides. 

_You and me,_ the voice whispers. _Together. Nothing in the way._

Theo doesn't want to hear it. But the voice is already there — has always been there — is too familiar a whisper haunting the inside of his head. He aches, the cut of the scalpel searing his skin like a line of fire drawn down his middle. He cannot put the feeling out of his head; the shadow voice is in there, drumming on his skull, plucking at his nerves. 

The hands tug him open wider, spike the pain higher, and somewhere only in Theo's head he screams a blood-curdling scream, before his eyes snap open wide.

* * *

Sunlight streams in through the window, but Theo remains in bed. He has work. He needs to get up, needs to throw his breakfast in the microwave, grab his keys, head down to his car and drive to the funeral home. He stares up at the ceiling of his bedroom, and does none of those things.

His phone is on the bedside table, just out of sight unless he cranes his head to the side. He considers calling in, letting someone know that he won't be able to make it to the job. He doesn't manage to do that, either. 

Slowly, eventually, Theo's hands rise to poke at his collarbones, before his fingers follow his sternum down along the length of his chest. The skin is smooth beneath his fingertips and for a moment Theo starts, pulling his hands back in surprise. He was expecting... He doesn't know what he was expecting; as soon as the thought rises from the back of his mind it's gone, evaporating like a dream he'd strained too hard to recall. 

Theo simply lies there a minute longer, breathing, waiting. His hand reaches out, scoops his phone off the table.

It isn't the work number he dials. When he looks at the face of his phone, he sees it's his boyfriend's contact he's brought up. He hesitates, but his finger is sneakily scooting toward send. The sound of the ringer is foreign, unexpected, registering as a sound he hasn't heard in a great while. He can't remember the last time he's made this call. 

He's almost relieved, when it goes to voicemail. He finds he has no idea what he meant to say.

"Hey," he starts, faltering a little. "I just wanted to call, you know, to check in. It feels like we haven't spoken in forever. We should go out soon. I think about you all the time. I miss you." 

He falls silent a moment, words giving way to a soft laugh. "Call me back. I hope you miss me too."

* * *


End file.
